


The Reunion Tour

by phae



Series: B.A.N.D. Takes the Stage [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Dorks in Love, Drunken Kissing, M/M, Marvel Cameos, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:36:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3978289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even after you've hit the big-time, it's important not to forget where you came from, the past that got you to where you are today. Phil's probably hung-up on his yesterdays more than the average celebrity, but he's got good reason to be--namely, the high school crush he never bothered to get over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reunion Tour

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a prompt from [thenoiseandthefunk](http://thenoiseandthefunk.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. As you can see, it's taken on a mind of it's own.

Clint spends twenty minutes spiking his hair, decides it makes him look too young, jumps back in the shower to wash the gel out, then ends up spiking it again anyway because it’s the only way he knows how to style his hair.

 

The eyeliner might be a bit much, but Tasha says it really makes his eyes pop, and the name of the game tonight _is_ to stand out, so…

 

He’s been saving up for months, squirreling away a few bucks every paycheck so that he could buy tickets for this concert—this exclusive, back-to-their-roots concert that has finally brought B.A.N.D. back to Brooklyn after they’ve been touring the country, then the world, for nearly two years.

 

The whole experience is bound to be amazing and totally worth it and more than a little personal for Clint.

 

Because the members of B.A.N.D.—badass bass player and lead singer Maria Hill, lead guitarist and rapper (shut up, they somehow make it work for their sound, okay?) Nick Fury, guitarist and songwriter Jasper Sitwell, drummer and all-around dark horse Phil Coulson—went to Clint’s high school. He used to pass by the music room and hear them rehearsing during lunch. He took U.S. History with Jasper, was lab partners in Chemistry with Nick, had the pleasure of getting picked for Maria’s dodgeball team in gym. He may have even had the slightest, barely worth mentioning really, crush on bad-boy Phil, who was always walking around with scraped knuckles or sporting a wicked shiner.

 

So, this concert, it’s first and foremost a great excuse to support some of his old high school friends, hopefully say hi to them, maybe exploit some dirt he’s still got on Nick to convince him to talk Clint up to Phil.

 

Thus, the eyeliner. And skinny jeans. And skin-tight t-shirt that barely fits over his shoulders.

 

Because his secondary goal for the night is, not so surprisingly, to maybe make out with Phil Coulson and finally put all his teenage fantasies to bed. (Ha, if only! Wait, no, don't think that, you'll jinx it!)

 

Clint eyes himself critically in the bathroom mirror for another minute before deciding to brush his teeth again. Just in case.

 

* * *

 

The concert is everything Clint’s come to expect of B.A.N.D., honestly. He’s been following their career since they first made it, has all their songs memorized, even got Maria to trick the guys into signing a copy of their first album for him without letting Nick or Jasper know who it was for so they couldn’t be shitheads about it and clog up his Twitter feed with jokes about him being their groupie.

 

He spends the whole night with a smile stretched wide on his face, even when his cheeks start to seriously ache. He’s close enough to the stage that it almost feels intimate, but maybe that’s more to do with the fact that he knows these guys. Every other concert he’s been to, it’s been for a group whose sound he fell for long before he had faces to put to the voices.

 

For their encore, they switch things up and trade off instruments. Nick takes over the bass, Jasper runs over to gleefully spin the drumsticks between his fingers, Maria starts absolutely _shredding_ on Nick’s guitar, and Phil plucks out careful notes on Jasper’s Fender while he croons sweet lyrics into the microphone.

 

Clint damn near melts.

 

The stage lights are no doubt sweltering, and Clint has a hard time dragging his eyes away from the sheen of sweat coating Phil’s arms, making the various tattoos that detail his sleeves catch the light as he plays.

 

(Clint still remembers Phil’s first tattoo. Or well, not that he knows the story behind it or anything, but he caught Phil showing it off to Maria one morning in the student parking lot, his shirt rucked up so that she could poke at the brightly inked shades of red, white and blue. Clint didn’t have the right angle to actually make out the whole image, but it was something patriotic, like big tough biker dudes getting a flag or a bald eagle etched into their biceps.)

 

The song winds down, Maria holding out the last note as Jasper clashes the cymbals, and with a final flourish, they all take a bow and the lights cut out. Around him, the vibrating mass of the crowd explodes in screams and applause and general enthusiasm.

 

Clint pushes through the cheering, sweaty bodies and manages to slip out the side exit. Other savvy fans are already huddled around the backstage door, waiting for the band members to make an appearance and sign autographs. Clint shoves his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the brisk night air. It’s probably not all that cool out really, not for Brooklyn, but the drastic drop compared to the stifled air inside the venue leaves him shivering.

 

It’s only a few minutes before the door crashes open, Nick stalking forward with his usual flair for the dramatic. The four of them file out, another man dressed in a sharp suit following in their wake, no doubt a rep from their record label. They start signing whatever gets shoved their way, and Clint laughs out loud when a busty girl sporting hipster glasses pushes to the front to bat her eyelashes at Maria and asks her to sign her chest, already popping open the buttons of her shirt. Maria’s as cool a cucumber as they come, and she takes it all in stride, smirking at the girl and throwing her a wink once she finishes signing.

 

Nick must hear him laughing, because the next thing Clint knows, he’s shouting above the clamor of the small crowd at him. “Fuck, Barton! Get over here, man!”

 

Clint pushes to the front with many mumbled apologies, the curious looks sticking to his back like a dozen _Kick Me_ signs. Clint stops a few feet away, where a semi-circle of railing barricades the band in. He raises a hand to wave at the group, but Jasper rolls his eyes and reaches across to yank Clint in, hugging him over the railing and patting his back way too hard. 

 

Maria slides into place in front of him as soon as Jasper releases him, hauling him in by the back of his neck and placing a smacking kiss right on his lips. She pulls back and swipes at the lipstick she had to have left behind with her thumb, smiling at him with that same mix of fondness and exasperation that she always regarded him with in high school.

 

Nick’s right behind her, dragging Phil up with him, an arm slung casually over his shoulders. “Come on, Cheese. You remember Hawkass, don’t ya?” Nick asks, clapping Clint’s shoulder with his free hand.

 

“It’s Hawk _eye_ , you fucking dipshit,” Clint grumbles back, smiling through his weak attempt at a glare.

 

Nick slaps him upside the head like he used to whenever Clint’s attention would start to slide away from whatever experiment they were supposed to be running. Phil just looks on at them in befuddled amusement. “Ain’t nobody looking at your eyes when you’re wearing them jeans, man. D’you fucking paint ‘em on or what?”

 

“Just ‘cause your ass is as flat as the plains in Oregon Trail–”

 

Nick gasps theatrically in shock and clutches at his heart like he’s actually been wounded. “See if I invite you to our kickass after party, bubble butt.”

 

“Maria already texted me the address.”

 

“Division in the ranks!” Nick wails. He steps back when their rep comes up to loom over his shoulder, sliding over to start signing ticket stubs and CDs again, leaving Clint standing pressed up against the rail with the crowd pushing at his back, Phil still right there, just inches away.

 

“Uh, so, I guess we’ll see you later then?” Phil asks after a moment, his face scrunching up oddly.

 

The warm little ball of giddy butterflies in Clint’s belly stills for a moment as Phil rocks back on his heels. He doesn’t seem to remember Clint at all, which, okay. Clint never actually worked up anything close to enough courage to ever say more than a few casual words to the guy in high school, so he supposes that’s only fair. But Clint's friends seemed genuinely happy to see him again, and Maria already extracted a promise from him to attend the after party— _no matter what, on pain of death, Barton—_ as soon as he told her he was coming to the concert, so even though his stupid teenage crush is going to have to fizzle out like a sad little sparkler, he’s got no reason to feel disappointed and _hurt_ right now. “Right, yeah. See you there,” Clint mutters, already merging back into the press of bodies around him.

 

* * *

 

“The fuck happened out there, Cheese?” Nick groans as Blake shuffles them back through the stage door and into the theatre’s backstage lounge while they wait for the crowd to thin out before heading to the after party. Phil stares doggedly ahead and marches over to an honest-to-god beanbag chair, sinking into the nylon-covered mass and letting it curl around him protectively.

 

“He froze up faster than a deep-fried Twinkie doused in liquid nitrogen,” Jasper butts in with a cackling laugh. He claps Phil on the shoulder as he wanders past, which only gives Phil an excuse to hunch over into himself even more. “Truly a sight to behold.”

 

“Called it. Pay up, bitches.” Maria snaps pointedly at Nick and Jasper. Nick grouches and complains as he pulls a stack of bills out of his back pocket, but Jasper doesn’t seem to be overly disappointed to have lost their latest shitty bet concerning Phil’s personal life.

 

“I hate you all,” Phil mutters into his chest.

 

Nick walks over to the table that had been full of finger-food snacks before the show, and now holds mostly bottles of liquor. “No, you don’t. I’m gonna have to seriously rethink how I feel about you if you lose me another hundred, though.” Nick opens a bottle of vodka and pours liberal shots into the waiting glasses before stalking over to Phil and holding out two for him. “So with that in mind, drink up.”

 

Phil shoves Nick’s hands away, his nose scrunching up at the strong whiff of flavored vodka that assaults his senses, overly sweet because Nick has truly atrocious taste in booze.

 

Nick fends off his hands and pushes one shot glass right up against Phil's mouth, trying to tip the liquid in. “Nope. None of that bullshit tonight. We gotta get you drunk, preferably fast enough that you don’t put your foot in your mouth again when you talk to Barton at the party.”

 

“How is alcohol meant to help that situation?” Phil demands as he turns his head to try and escape the god-awful smell. It’s a fruitless endeavor; Phil’s as far back in the beanbag as he can go, and Nick is a stubborn son of a bitch who just moves the shots in conjunction with his retreat. “I go full-on dork before I even hit the tipsy stage!”

 

Maria scoffs from the other side of the room where’s she mixing up a lethal looking cocktail. “I still don’t know why you’re so convinced your Dork Side is such a turn-off.”

 

“Besides, we’re blowing straight past tipsy and heading for down-right hammered tonight,” Jasper informs him with a grin that looks far too delighted for how little his lips have actually twitched upwards; he’s always insisting that the proper way to emote is all in the eyes.

 

“With any luck, you’ll fall right into bed with him,” Nick continues. He abandons one of the glasses to the floor so that he has a hand free to hold Phil’s head still. “And once he’s in that octopus-hold of yours—“

 

“I do not—” The protest is automatic, it always is when any of them start teasing him about his supposed sleeping habits, but it’s his downfall as Nick takes the opportunity to pour the first shot down his throat. Phil gags and tries to spit it back out, but Nick clamps a hand over his mouth until he swallows it. The aftertaste is actually worse than the smell, Phil soon discovers.

 

Jasper shakes his head and accepts the drink Maria hands off to him before she moves over to the rack of discarded wardrobe possibilities from the concert, rifling through the hangers with a frown. “You’re a chronic cuddler, Phil. Time to face the facts,” Jasper proclaims, toasting him with his glass before tipping his head back to chug it.

 

Nick has the other shot glass in hand a second later and is moving it into position, saying, “Don’t worry, we got this. You’ll both be too hungover to leave until you’ve sorted your shit out.”

 

Phil sucker punches him in the stomach, and it’s totally worth a lap full of sticky vodka for the wheeze Nick emits as he finally backs off.

 

“Here, put these on.” Maria tosses a suit vest, just the vest, and another pair of jeans at his head, and Phil pulls them back to regard the vest questioningly.

 

“What—why would I wear this? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” He’d changed out of the sweaty tee he’d been wearing on stage to a light but long-sleeved v-neck. It was even red, which Maria always insisted he should wear more often.

 

“It covers up all your tattoos,” she explains simply, rolling her eyes as if this should be _obvious_.

 

“So?” Phil shrugs and makes no move to pull the vest off the hanger. “It’s fall. In New York. It’s chilly outside.”

 

Maria sighs and tips her head back to address the ceiling. “But not inside, which is where you will be.”

 

“Strip! Strip! Strip!” Jasper chants, sliding away from his perch on the arm of the couch to refill his drink.

 

Phil opens his mouth to keep arguing, but Nick has recovered from the blow to his gut and starts trying to wrestle Phil’s shirt off of his body. “Ugh, _fine_ ,” Phil finally gives in, kicking at Nick’s shins until he steps back. Phil pulls his shirt over his head and slides the vest on over his shoulders, all under Nick’s exasperated glare. He rocks back up to his feet so that he can shuck his wet jeans and slip on the clean pair, then buttons the vest up. He feels ridiculous, because it doesn’t even cover his stomach completely, his boney hips jutting out from under the dark fabric. He tries to yank it forward, but as soon as he lets go, the vest settles back as it was.

 

“Much better.” Maria nods decisively and finally smiles at him, now that he’s done her bidding.

 

Jasper gives him a thumbs-up to show his agreement since his mouth is otherwise occupied. Once he’s finished off his drink, he offers helpfully, “Clint’s gaga for your tattoos.”

 

Phil blinks back owlishly and chokes out, “What?”

 

“It’s true. Every time some pap catches a shot of you leaving a parlor, Clint’s blowing up my phone demanding I text him pictures,” Maria throws out offhandedly, already focused on the booze table again.

 

“What!?” Phil exclaims, his voice going screechy and painfully high-pitched.

 

Nick groans theatrically and drags his hands down his face. “Let’s see if I can make this clear enough for you, you dense motherfucker. He’s just as into you as you’re into him, and if by sunrise, one of you ain’t in the other, I’m washing my hands of this shit once and for all, and you can live unhappily ever after pining after each other but never having the balls to do something about it,” he spits out with a scowl.

 

Phil—really doesn’t know how to process that information. Luckily, Maria’s at his elbow a second later, handing him a cocktail that looks a good deal more appealing than Nick’s shitty vodka. He drinks it a fair bit faster than he probably should.

 

The night, as a whole, starts to blur from that point on.

 

* * *

 

Clint loiters outside the after party well after B.A.N.D. officially arrives. The temperature’s been dropping pretty steadily, so it’s not the most comfortable place to hang out, but so far it’s still beating the alternative, which is to go inside and have Phil’s eyes pass over him blankly, acknowledge him only when Nick or Jasper draws him over.

 

Clint’s phone buzzes in his pocket, another text from Maria no doubt, except that the buzzing doesn’t stop. He pulls it out to see that Maria has resorted to calling him now, and he hangs his head in defeat as he answers the call.

 

“Hey.”

 

_“Where are you?”_

 

“I’m, uh, almost there. Traffic, you know. Not all of us have fancy drivers to get us from point A to point B,” Clint hedges, scuffing the toe of his Converse against the sidewalk. A few feet away, the record label’s bouncer pulls the door to the warehouse open to let in a few more people, and the lights from inside flash across the street as the bass volume increases drastically.

 

_“Traffic. Right.”_

 

The call cuts out abruptly, and Clint is left blinking at his flashing phone screen. He jerks when a ringtone goes off, but it’s not his (obviously, seeing as yours is turned off, knucklehead) _._ It’s the bouncer’s, and he answers it with a surprisingly pleasant, “Do you require assistance inside with the revelers?”

 

Mildly boggled, Clint fumbles with his phone until he manages to shove it back into his pocket. The bouncer is nodding along to whatever he’s being told, and then his gaze moves over to Clint, pinning him in place without even looking particularly aggressive about it. “Of course. I will send him in at once.”

 

He hangs up, sliding his phone into the back pocket of his jeans easily, and then he stalks right over to Clint, tossing his long blond hair away from his face like some fucking L’Oreal model before crossing his bulging biceps over his broad chest. Clint gulps, and the bouncer raises one eyebrow pointedly.

 

“Right, so, I’ll just head on in then, yeah?” Clint edges around the bouncer, hugging the brick wall of the warehouse, and as soon as his hand finds the door handle, he twists it and slips inside without taking his eyes off the guy.

 

As soon as he clears the doorway, he’s ambushed by a glass spouting umbrellas. “Uh…”

 

“You’re late,” Maria grouches in his ear, just loud enough to be heard over the DJ’s pulse-thumping set. “And have a lot of catching up to do. Drink.”

 

Clint takes the drink from her, the glass chilled against his fingertips, and sips at it hesitantly. His eyebrows tick up a second later in surprise, because it’s actually not half bad. But when he tries to lower the drink so he can talk to Maria, she just slots her hand under the base and tips it back up to his mouth.

 

Clint finishes off the rest of the drink without much time to really taste it, which is unfortunate, but Maria’s doing the death stare thing, and Clint’s never been inclined to displease her even when she’s not, so…

 

Except that once he’s done with that one and turns to set the glass aside on one of the high circular tables ringing the room, Maria has somehow acquired shots by the time he turns back around. She pushes both of them into his unresisting hands, and when he looks back at her, bewildered and confused, she replies succinctly, “You got here late. Drink up.”

 

He throws back the shots and that seems to appease Maria enough that she allows him to continue further into the warehouse, but she keeps a firm hand on his elbow so that he can’t wander off and fade into one of the many shadowed alcoves littering the space.

 

The lights overhead are swinging back and forth, painting the warehouse neon and momentarily blinding him any time one catches his eyes at just the right angle, and they keep having to pause on their way through the crowd, so it takes Clint a minute to realize they’ve stopped for good, and Maria’s waiting for him to pull his attention back in.

 

When he does, he comes face-to-face with Phil Coulson just a few steps away, who is swaying a little bit as Jasper tries to hold him steady with an arm around his shoulders. They’ve all changed since the concert, which, sure, makes sense. But Phil. _Phil._ Wearing a suit vest without a suit, or really anything else to go with it, should look so incredibly douchey, but Phil somehow manages to pull it off in the most delicious way. He’s obviously drunk, and the alcohol gives him a look of permanent warmth, like he’s just on the verge of blushing, which Clint is delighted to see is a trend that continues well down his chest past the edge of the vest.

 

While Clint’s been busy gaping at him, Phil has stumbled forward until he’s close enough that Clint can reach out and touch him. And he does, because Phil looks a little unsteady on his feet.

 

He only grabs onto Phil’s forearm, just to keep the guy from falling over, he’s just helping, really, but then Phil smiles at him, dopey in the way only the truly inebriated can pull off, and he brings his free-swinging arm up to wrap his hand around Clint’s wrist so that Clint can’t pull away.

 

The music is blasting out of the speakers with a physical force, the lights are sparkling merrily overhead, and the dancing crowd around them is an endless source of empathetic energy.

 

Phil leans in so that he can speak over all the noise and says, “Your eyes are so fucking gorgeous.”

 

And Clint, because he is an absolute goober, replies, “Yeah, it’s the eyeliner.”

 

The rest of Phil’s body follows after his head, and then they’re pressed chest-to-chest, and Clint can’t figure out if the swooping happening in his stomach is because of Phil or the high-quality booze. Phil’s eyes drop down to Clint’s lips, and then he’s licking his own. And, well, he’s right there, after all, so Clint lets himself fall forward into Phil. Their mouths slot together effortlessly, and Clint lets everything else fall to the wayside so that he can enjoy this one impossibly perfect moment with Phil’s focus solely on him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Props to [piepeloe](http://piepeloe.tumblr.com/) for coming up with the band's name, which there will be more on later!
> 
> Edited 7-22-15


End file.
